I remember that day with crystal clarity. I was 17 when I went to my mother and told her I was pregnant. The words she used cut so deep that I would never forget them.

My hands shook as I stood in our fancy living room, clutching my stomach, while my mother's face turned red with rage.

"A baby? At your age? With Michael?!" she spat out my boyfriend's name like it was poison. Her perfectly manicured nails dug into the arm of her favorite leather chair. "Do you have any idea what people will say? How your stepfather and I will be shunned? Our daughter with a baby out of wedlock and NO FUTURE!"

I shifted on my feet, feeling ill from more than just morning sickness. "Michael and I will figure it out," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "We will get married when we can. He's already looking for a better job, and—"

"Married? A better job?" she laughed, but there wasn't any humor in it. Her eyes looked almost wild. "That boy works at his dad's garage! The least you could've done was hook up with one of our friends' kids. You had doctor's sons, lawyer's sons, and more at your school. Instead, you chose some mechanic's kid who probably can't even afford to buy you dinner."

"Mommy, please—" My throat felt tight.

"No, Caroline. You listen to me." She stood and stepped closer, jabbing her finger in my face. "You're throwing your life away AS A TEEN for some working-class nobody. I didn't raise you to be this stupid and selfish."

Tears rolled down my cheeks. "He loves me. We love each other."

"Love?" She sneered, pacing now. Her heels clicked angrily against the hardwood floor. "Love won't pay the bills. Love won't give you the same life we did. Love won't get you into Stanford like Mrs. Miller's daughter." She whirled to face me. "But you've made your choice, haven't you? Well, now you can live with it... somewhere else!"

"What?" I croaked.

"Pack your things and get out. I don't ever want to see you in this house again!"

Those were the last words I heard from her before I left that night, carrying only what would fit in my old backpack.

She didn't try to stop me. That was 12 years ago. I hadn't seen or heard from her or my stepfather since.

But Michael proved her wrong about everything. He worked three jobs while taking night classes in business. His family actually supported us, even though they weren't wealthy.

Eventually, he started his own construction company. Now, it's one of the biggest in our area. We bought our dream house five years ago—a beautiful two-story home with a huge yard for our kids, Ethan and Lily.

And we also got married in a dreamlike ceremony.

My life couldn't have been better, honestly. But I often wondered if I should reach out to my mother. Ethan and Lily deserved to know their grandmother.

Well, that's what I used to think... until…

Around a month ago, on a Saturday afternoon, I was in the backyard, playing tag with the kids. The maple trees were starting to turn orange, and the air smelled like fall.

Ethan, now 11, chased his eight-year-old sister around our yard while I pretended I couldn't catch them.

"Mom, watch this!" Ethan called, doing a cartwheel that made Lily giggle and try to copy him.

"Careful, baby," I said, smiling as she wobbled through her attempt.

Duke, our German Shepherd, was running around with us, too. I trusted that dog with my life. He was always alert, protecting the entire family.

Suddenly, his ears perked up, and we all turned to see a black SUV pulling up to the driveway.

Michael was home from buying supplies for the barbecue we were having that night. He got out with that big smile that still made my heart skip after all these years.

"Daddy!" Lily squealed, running to him.

"There's my princess!" Michael scooped her up, then high-fived Ethan. "Hey, buddy! How about you help your dad set up the barbecue pit? I can show you how to light a fire."

"Yes!" Ethan pumped his fist.

My heart leaped into my throat. "Wait, wait. Fire?" I asked.

Michael and Ethan turned to me, and they had that conspiratorial look they always got when they were going to convince "protective Mom" of something.

But instead of speaking, they looked at something behind me, and then, I heard a soft voice: "Caroline... Caroline."

I froze. I knew that voice.

I turned around slowly. There she was—my mother—standing outside our white fence. Tears streamed down her face. Her clothes were wrinkled and faded, and her graying hair was pulled back in a loose, unkempt bun.

The woman before me was a stranger. All traces of her former elegance were gone. She looked... broken.